You’ll end up dead, that’s what. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor.
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